The Client
by CSI Clue
Summary: An enounter in room 1818 of the Sphere changes everything.
1. Default Chapter

The Client

Names are important.

I have several of course, we all do—part of the mystique of the job. Since it's a service industry, the customer gets the right to call us whatever they want. Their money; their time; their fantasy. I don't mind. Nobody here knows my real name anyway and I like it that way. It's nothing personal.

I go by Slim most of the time. It suits me, since I'm almost five ten without heels. I've got showgirl height, but not the rest of the physique. I've had my boobs done a bit, but anything else wouldn't sit right, and my clientele tend to favor me just as I am. After all, they pay enough for it, and I work hard enough to keep this long lanky frame of mine in top shape: lots of time at the gym, doing yoga, eating right, all to stay within the top tier of Sleek Inc's roster. It's a living, and a good one, but I'm getting out very soon, and heading to California. I've got a brother there who'll put me up while I shake the grit and glitter of Vegas off my ass and leave my clients behind.

I'll miss a few of them of course. Even though it's nothing personal, I did have my favorites. Doctor X was charming, and a good tipper once we were done for the night. Old Mr. John Doe never asked for more than dinner out and a chance to stroke my thighs under my dress while we ate. After our first night we both knew he was too old for Viagra; still, he was a kind man.

But I'll miss Mr. Grey the most I think.

I remember when we first met over the murder of Chris Bezich. I never liked the owner of the Acid Drop, a slick schemer who seemed to feel he needed his money's worth out of any hire from Sleek's, and still bitched even when he got the works. Masha told me he'd bragged about nailing any orifice he wanted, so I was glad he was into more curves than I had and never hired me. Still, to be found dead at the Tangiers, done execution style wasn't nice. I had the bad luck to be in the hotel that night, and all the questioning was pretty perfunctory. I was working, sure, but up in the penthouse, and nowhere near the Kasbah Room where Bezich got offed.

Usually I get eyed up by the cops who know what I am, and released with nothing more than a grunt. Sleek's doesn't like their employees to get arrested—very bad for the image. I'd managed to avoid it up to that point, and it looked as if I'd be off scott free that time too, but one of the detectives, a big guy with a flattop haircut told me to go wait to have my shoes checked. Apparently whoever had murdered Chris B. had stepped in his blood, and had been wearing Astrabellas at the time.

So I lit up and waited, which I detested doing, and while I was up against the wall of a little alcove, I saw this man coming towards me. He was broad-chested, and older, with a beard and a fairly nice looking face. He looked up just as I did, and for a moment he went pale, but only for a moment, and then he cocked his head and let his gaze land on my cigarette.

"That's not good for you," he told me, as if I was a kid, or just starting on the habit. I remember arching an eyebrow at him as I ground it out in the sand of the ashtray in the lobby.

"A lot of things aren't good for you," I shot back; just to see if he'd play along. He knelt down and looked up at me, and that's when I could see something in his face, right then in the dim light of the lobby alcove. A strange flicker of desire and anger, as if I'd disappointed him personally. I lifted my leg to let him take my shoe off, letting him fumble through his latex gloves to undo the tiny buckle on the ankle. I know he was tempted to peek up my skirt and didn't let himself, and that pissed me off a little.

I mean who was this guy who was too good for a little window shopping? So I let my foot slide up his forearm in one quick stroke before pulling away, but let me tell you, he got a good shot at paradise right then and there.

He winced, but I wasn't concentrating on his face. A quick look told me that other parts of him weren't so reluctant to stand up and cheer, not by a long shot. I laughed softly, just enough to let him know that I could see he was getting a serious hard on.

He ignored it, and me, and took a print of my shoe on some fancy paper. When he was done I thought he'd hand my shoe back to me, but instead, he slipped it back onto my foot, never looking up into my face while he buckled it up again. That blew me away a little, but I've had a few clients who were into the feet and shoe thing, so I let him have his fun. When he was finished, he didn't let go of my foot for a few seconds.

"I'm going to need that back—"I reminded him gently. He let go and stood up, and when those blue eyes met my brown ones, I felt some real heat coming off this guy. Something a lot more than just the normal potential client vibe. Something . . . damn near desperate. He took a breath, as if he was pulling himself together, and right behind those baby blues I could see him weighing pros and cons, struggling with some weird inner battle that had nothing to do with morals, just needs and justifications.

I wanted him for a client. Right then and there I knew whatever this guy saw in me, I could fill that need, so I carefully palmed one of Sleek's cards from my purse and pressed it into his big hand. He looked down and then up at me again. I didn't smile, but I kept his gaze.

"I think you like what you see," I told him. He didn't say a word, and I busied myself working my foot back into my shoe for a moment. When I looked up again, he blinked a little, and his voice was so soft I had to strain to hear it.

"How . . . much?"

I told him.

000 000 000

He didn't call until almost a month later, after the dust had settled on Bezich's murder. I was home that morning, setting up my weekly roster when Sleek's sent me a page about a request. Those are usually good calls because it means I've been referred by someone I trust. In this case it was myself, since I recognized his voice right away.

"You're the girl from the Tangier's lobby, the one I printed?" he asked softly. I smiled into the phone. Poor guy, probably lived in Vegas all his life and had never hooked up with a hooker before. I cleared my throat.

"Call me Slim. And I'll call you Mr. Grey. What can I do for you?"

Ah the awkward pause—we both know damn well what I could do for him; what he was going to pay for me to do for, to and with him, but I loved to make them say it out loud.

"You can meet me at the Sphere, room 1818," he replied in a steady voice. I was intrigued—could I have misjudged my Mr. Grey? I drew a breath, making a noncommittal sound, but he continued, "—In half an hour, please."

Politeness—another rarity in this business.

"Of course."

I hung up and spent a little more time than usual getting dressed, trying to find just the right thing for Mr. Grey. I settled on a slacks and a silk blouse with a long matching scarf around my neck. All long lines, accentuating my better features. I made the Sphere in good time, taking the elevator up, and feeling a little nervous as I did. The first appointment with a new client was always tricky, and potentially dangerous even though Sleek's has a call in policy and a speed dial alert button on my cell phone. I've had to fight off a few kinkier customers, and once walked out on one who wanted me to spray paint him with cooking oil from head to toe . . .

I knocked on 1818, which was at the end of the hall, near the exit. He opened the door and stood there for a moment, looking at me, all eyes and pursed mouth, waiting a long slow tick of the minutes as I looked back at him. The curtains were closed, the room dark.

Finally, he stepped back.

I stepped inside, and for a moment we stood there, within touching distance, not moving closer or away. At length I drew in a breath and crossed my arms.

"Mr. Grey . . . I'm going to help you out here," I finally murmured, bringing him out of whatever trance state he'd gone into. Carefully I set my purse down on the nightstand between the beds and came back to him. He watched me carefully as I took one of his hands and pressed it to my chest. His fingers were cold.

"Since you've never done this before, it goes like this. You pay me first. Once I have the money, you tell me what you want. I'm very choosy about who I'm with, so we'll use latex, which I have with me. I will not kiss you on the mouth. But, I will be whomever you want; say whatever you want; do whatever you desire, for the next hour and a half."

He nodded, his face taut. I held out my other hand, feeling him press the dry papery bills into it.

Crisp, new hundreds. Four of them.

I nodded back.

"Very good. Let me put this away."

When I'd tucked the money into my purse and turned back to him, he was staring at me intently. Another tricky moment; to stop him from changing his mind I stepped out of my shoes and caught his hands again, letting my thumbs caress the tendons on the backs of them.

"There is a reason you chose me," I began carefully, my voice soft and slow. He nodded. I spoke up again. "And it's because I'm her, or close enough to her, to pass."

He looked up, startled and clearly angry; I always hated having to lay Truth Number One out to my clients. For Doctor X I was someone named Molly; Mr. Doe always called me Carol. No matter, every john has someone he's fantasizing about, and it's never really me on that bed getting screwed. It's a Chloe, or a Patty or a Samantha . . . as I told you, names are important. I needed to know who Mr. Grey was hungry for if this was going to happen.

"Yes," he admitted in a choked, almost angry whisper. I nodded, glad that he wasn't going to deny it. It helped that we were in semi-darkness, more in shadow than light.

"Good," I told him, and very gently reached for his big shoulders. Tense. His body was ready for me, oh yeah, but his mind still held back a little. Rubbing those shoulders, I whispered very softly to him, letting him get used to my nearness, "Then use my name, babe."

A flare of nostrils; I must have said the right term of affection. He lifted his head and blinked a little, the ache in his eyes obvious. Her name came out in a small, hopeless way; a simple one of two syllables, Biblical.

He undressed me, touching my skin with his big, cool hands, moving with deliberation. He wanted me to leave the scarf on, and that amused me a little, but the client's always right, so I did. He had good hands, I'll give him that; very gentle. Some clients feel they've got a right to maul a rental, but not Mr. Grey. I had to fight down a flare or two myself when he stroked me.

See, I can't afford to get involved with a client. Not ever. A lot of my roster are genuinely nice men, charming and considerate, but I keep in mind that they're only leasing my body for a while, not making love to the real me. It's all fantasy, and while Pretty Woman was a box office hit, it doesn't happen that way in real life. We working girls know damn well that if we start feeling things with a client, then it's time to let him go and move on, so I put my focus back on Mr. Grey, where it was supposed to be. After all, it was his four hundred I was earning.

I stripped him down, talking softly to him, just little sounds of encouragement while he kept caressing me. I hadn't had a customer so touch hungry in a long time. Finally, when we were both naked in the bed and he had me in his arms, I let him bury his face in the crook of my neck, although his beard tickled like hell. I let him touch me, didn't hurry him even though the clock was ticking.

It was hard not to feel for this guy; and to stop it, I started wondering why he was stuck hiring me instead of nailing the woman I was pretending to be. He had no wedding ring, so it wasn't a matter of cheating on a wife, and I could see that Mr. Grey didn't have any trouble getting it up big time—not by the hot nudges of his prick on my leg.

All I could guess was either that she had turned him down and broken his heart, or maybe she was gone for good. Either way, he was about as desperate as a guy can get, and that depressed me a little. That meant it would be over quick, he'd hate himself for it, and I'd either never see him again, or that he'd only call me when he got worked up to this level of recklessness, which might be a good long time.

And I already knew I wanted to see Mr. Grey again.

I reached for the latex, got him suited up pretty quickly in the dark. I'm good at it, can even do it one-handed, which is a hell of a people skill let me tell you. He was dazed, sweating a little, so I took him in my arms and just sort of guided him to where he so urgently needed to be; by that first slow, intense, push I knew I had him.

Ooooooh yeah, nice to see that for all his nervousness he knew what the hell to do in bed. Big and strong, his hands slid up around my wrists and he murmured something in my ear. I said it out loud.

"Pin me down."

He moaned then, thrusting harder, deeper into me as I wrapped my legs around him. Jesus, it was sheer murder not to kiss him; I turned my face, letting my hair fall over it. Let him keep his fantasy, let him take me with all that bleak strength and desire surging up through his hungry body. I locked my ankles up around his ribcage, urging him on, making sure our rhythm was good and hot, that he lost himself in the wet, intense make-believe that I was the woman he wanted so badly.

He came, trying not to make a sound, but he did of course, a groan so low and sad it made me bite my lips. Normally I try to get the condom off the client within the first few minutes after Ground Zero, but Mr. Grey here needed to be held, so--I held him. Stroked those damp grey curls and murmured soft little wordless sounds as he rested his scratchy cheek on my chest.

"Shhhhhh, you're fine. I've got you . . ." it came out like I was soothing a baby, but I couldn't help it. Despite his size and power he was lonely. He gave in and let me hold him a while longer, then pulled away and off of me, his expression even bleaker than it had been before we'd started.

I knew the question that was coming. It always comes with the new ones, the guys who've never hired a girl before.

"H-how can you—"

I reach up and laid a hand over on his mouth, shaking my head softly, stopping him right there. Slowly, I turned to face him and drew in a breath.

Time for Truth Number Two.

"It's my living."

"But—"

"Hey, you print shoes and catch bad guys while I comfort clients when they need more than the touch of their own hands and insubstantial fantasies, Mr. Grey."

We stared at each other for a moment, and I refused to drop my eyes or pretend I was in any way morally inferior to him.

I charge what I'm worth.

Finally he gave a little nod and slipped an arm around me. I stayed gentle, not imposing, just encouraging him to give in to his need to touch and eventually his hormones got the better of him once more.

Such a lonely man.

Doggy style of course, a position perfect for hiding my face and letting him take the girl of his dreams. He was a bit rougher, but I understood, and kept my cries for his ears only, feeling his hands tighten on my hips as he rode me hard into his own sensual oblivion. He collapsed over my back and I felt drops along my spine that could have been sweat, but weren't.

I can always tell.

We showered together, which was almost more intimate than the sex, but I find it's a good way to bond a client to you. Scrub him up and give him all the pampering he's been missing down the line. Eighty percent of a top hooker's job isn't about sex, it's about personal care, and since I liked Mr. Grey it was almost fun. He didn't know what to do or even where to look as I soaped his big body. I kept things light, and cleaned him up, even going so far as to straighten the collar of his shirt and run a hand through his still-damp hair.

"There. All neat and tidy, Mr. Grey—"I teased him gently. Once we were dressed again, the old awkwardness came back, and I cleared my throat to get his attention. Carefully, I took one of his big hands in mine, the one that had held my shoe on that first meeting.

"I'll go first, since you paid for the room. Thank you for a nice time, Mr. Grey. You have my card when you need me again."

I turned to go. It's easier if I just slip out after my speech, so my clients don't feel obligated to make small talk, but he didn't let go of my hand, and I looked up at him, catching a look of bleak tenderness in his blue eyes; a man damning his own soul even as I watched.

"When?" he questioned, his voice soft, but the word hard and sharp, "—Not if?"

I nodded.

It would be a when. We both knew that.

He let go of my fingers then and I left him standing there in the shadowy darkness of 1818 without looking back.

000 000 000


	2. chapter two

So he wasn't a regular in the sense of a weekly or monthly appointment. Not like my others, and it intrigued me a little. I mean, the regularity of my schedule meant money in the bank for me, and that part was damned nice, but with my steady clientele I understood that routine was clearly comfort factor with them. Doctor X liked Monday afternoon sex, a nice roll in the hay at his townhouse. John Doe liked to take me to dinner around eight or so on Thursday nights, to be seen at the most expensive restaurants on the Strip. Most of the others had a pattern with me too, but not Mr. Grey. I never knew when to expect his call, and that was part of the mystery.

After that first morning at the Sphere I realized he'd given me an extra hundred; I found it in my coat pocket on the way out. Nice. And unexpected, too—not that Mr. Grey seemed cheap in any way, but having seen what he did for a living I didn't think he could afford me very often. Or so I thought.

A pity, because he'd been very nice about the whole thing. He was clean even before we started, and gentle, almost shy. Not a virgin, but clearly not the sort of guy to get naked in a hotel room with a woman on a regular basis. No, he knew his way around a woman's body, and I regretted my no-kiss policy because I bet he'd be nice to do that with. But I was firm with myself on that rule. I won't do it.

Kissing is the first step to getting involved with someone. You can't love someone without kissing them at some point, and for me, it's a more intimate an act than sex. Tabs and slots aren't nearly as personal as opening your mouth and heart to someone the way you do when you kiss. My clients don't seem to mind my rule, as long as I'm willing to use my mouth in other ways, and as long as I'm polite about it.

The second time Mr. Grey called me I was just waking up from a nap around ten PM on a weekend. The TV and papers had still been full of the story on the Sanderson murders and I for one was sickened and disheartened by them. I may be a hooker, but I'm a human and a woman too, and the deliberate slaughter of four little kids was more than I wanted to deal with at any point in my life. I couldn't imagine how the surviving family must have felt, and the cops had been pushing night and day to find the monster responsible.

I heard his voice, soft and tired over my cell phone. "I need to see you, Slim."

It hit me then; God, he was probably one of those behind-the-scenes guys working on the murders. I wondered if he'd gotten any sleep since Monday even as I spoke up.

"I'd like that, Mr. Grey. When and where?"

"The Sirocco, room 428."

The Sirocco was north of the Strip, and not as well known; the décor was sort of Arabian Nights, with a sand and silk theme, not as ornate as the Tangiers. He answered the door when I knocked; I guess he'd booked in and called me from here. Mr. Grey had his collar open and was sipping a glass of bourbon from the minibar when he opened the door. Only one light, the nightstand one, was on, and the curtains were drawn tightly.

He looked rough. I could see he hadn't groomed his beard for a few days, and there were the purple smudges under his eyes, but his smile was sad and sweet as he watched me walk in.

"You look . . . nice," he commented softly, and I felt his eyes follow my every move into the room. Hungry gaze. I let him look his fill—after all, his money.

Slowly I turned around, checking him out myself, seeing what else his stance and clothing could tell me. He was thinner, held together by an inner resolve that the bourbon was starting to wear down a little. There were chemical stains on his fingers, and a whiff of desperation on his skin, but the set of his shoulders made it clear he wasn't giving in easily. I set my purse down on the nightstand and sauntered back towards him, reaching out for his forearms.

God, they tight with tension, but not about me—this tension had been here for days, gripping him, clenching his muscles like steel and choking his body. I drew in a breath, stroked his arms and looked up into his face.

Haunted. That's what he was, that lonely blue gaze drinking me in, making me shiver.

"I want to help you," I told him softly, "Tell me what to do."

"Let . . . Let me undress you, honey," he whispered hoarsely back. I nodded.

The bills went from his hand to mine, and then to my purse; I turned back to him and gave him a small, encouraging smile, glad I'd chosen this particular outfit: one of my Li Matsuke pantsuits with a long mahogany silk coat and slacks topped by a gold blouse. He seemed to like it.

Carefully, he leaned back against the edge of the low dresser under the mirror, and pulled me to stand between his spread feet, the way a jock reigns in his girlfriend for a cuddle, lounging casually. I felt his hands slide down my shoulders and back, touching lightly, and to keep Mr. Grey going, I put my hands on his hard stiff shoulders.

"You're tense. Long week?" I asked, getting one of his little bleak smiles in return.

"I'm running on a total six hours of sleep since Monday night," he ruefully admitted, slipping my jacket off of me and laying it aside on the dresser. I liked that he didn't just drop it, or toss it aside. Carefully I began undoing his shirt buttons, checking to see if it was all right with him. Every touch seemed to help, and he gave a small nod as I continued.

I liked his hands, carefully undoing MY buttons in return, deliberately, gently. Clients don't often give a damn about my wardrobe or taking things like this slow—the faster I'm naked and on my back or on my knees the better—but Mr. Grey wasn't like so many of them. I could feel his breathing slow down when he slipped the blouse from my shoulders. I have big bony ones and they're not my best feature at all, but he didn't seem to mind as his thumbs stroked them.

"Strong collarbones," he commented a little sadly, which told me he was thinking of her. I waited until he set the blouse aside before I helped him out of his shirt in return.

Skin to skin was a pleasurable little shock; he was amazingly warm, and I was worried about chilling him with my cooler torso, but he didn't seem to mind at all. My bra straps fascinated him, and he took a long moment working them down my upper arms, his breath sweet from the bourbon. He paused, looking into my eyes for a moment when I unhooked my underwire and set it aside.

"You said you wouldn't kiss me, but does that include . . .?" he trailed off and that dull red along his face was adorable. I had to fight not to smile.

"Just mouth to mouth kissing," I told him softly, trying to stay firm. "But I'd be more than happy to kiss your entire body if that's what makes you feel good, Mr. Grey. Your chest, and shoulders . . ." I did so, bending my face down to press my lips to his skin. Hot, faintly spicy with clean musk. A downward glance and I could see he was definitely straining his slacks now. As I worked my way up one big bare shoulder I reached his ear and breathed in it; he arched back a little. Right then I slid my hand against his bulge as I added, "All the way down to your toes if you'd like. I suck, Mr. Grey, quite well."

"Christ!" he gulped and I knew whatever had been on his mind for the past one hundred and sixty eight hours was momentarily gone.

Chalk one up for Slim there.

His hands were up, moving down my back, playing with my spine, but heading south fast, so I helped him with the little zipper and stepped out of the pants. Luckily I had on my favorite black thong; the lace one. Mr. Grey's blue eyes were enormous drinking me in as I shifted my weight to one hip and smiled at him.

"The offer stands, babe . . ." I reminded him.

He nodded tightly, eyes closed and Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed a last slug of the bourbon. Since I was already standing between his thighs, it was no hardship to slowly slink down to my knees and work his fly open.

I don't mind this option myself. Some of the girls at Sleek's only work through latex, but I think that's a little paranoid myself. I like my customers, and I know enough about most of them to know they're not likely to play the field. Since this was all about making the client feel good, I took my time and put Mr. Grey through some highs and lows for a while, knowing I was holding him back only to tease him again.

He tasted lovely, and believe me, I know. Spicy, but with a hint of soap and water all along the length of him. Warm, suede soft skin over iron hard length, and throbbing as I worked him over my tongue. Vaguely I heard him gasping, felt him clutch my hair, and I gave a purr of encouragement because I know part of what drives the fantasy is that freedom to grab, to cry her name out along with endearments and curses.

We were close now, and I could feel the change of rhythm, the clenching of his thighs around the outside of my shoulders. The sudden swell of him and then a rush of sweetly bitter flavor over my palette in a few long spurts as he groaned his pleasure. I took my time cleaning him up, pleased to have given him a very nice BJ.

I rose, sliding my hands up his thighs, glancing into his face.

God.

His eyes were still closed, deep tear streaks dripping down from them making his long lashes dark and wet. I felt a stab of real fear then, and before I could think about it, I put my arms around him, guiding his head to my shoulder. He shook, but didn't make a sound as he held me.

We didn't talk. I got him into the bed and turned out the light, holding him until his breathing leveled out, stroking his stomach as he managed to get a hold of himself again to some degree.

"This is . . . wrong," he groaned, one arm over his eyes. I waited, not saying anything. Clients pay for the chance to be heard too, and I know when to stay quiet. Mr. Grey spoke again in a flat low voice.

"It's wrong. She's gone, Slim. I need to get that fact into every layer of my brain, not just consciously but down to the medulla instead of paying . . ."

". . . Instead of paying a hooker to be her, for a while," I finished. I knew the realities of my job, and usually they didn't hurt.

Usually.

He gave a cynical, sleepy little laugh.

"They care, and they try to make my life, my career work without her, but it's shallow. Like miles and miles of kiddie pool for a job. I go through my paces and do the work, but the pith of vocation is gone. She took it with her, Slim. I am a husk."

I waited a beat and commented softly, "There are cheaper therapies, Mr. Grey."

That made him laugh, a little bitterly, but I nuzzled his skin and kissed the big bare shoulder nearest me.

"I go to therapy, Slim. I force myself to talk to people who never knew her, clocking in the hours so I can keep my job because they say I'm recovering. I do everything by the book, and yet inside--I fester. Out of everything I've done or tried to get OVER what's happened, you're the only one that's left me . . . drained."

I sighed. Wordlessly I rolled over, pressing against him and taking his hand.

"Good."

I didn't know if he wanted a second round or not; he merely looked at me with those big blue eyes, scanning my face in a way that left me a little self-conscious. I know my mouth was still a little puffy.

"Yes." He agreed, distantly. Then he closed his eyes, and spoke a little more softly. "What time do you have to go?"

I checked my watch out of habit. Truth to tell I didn't have an appointment for the rest of the night, and the bed was fairly comfortable, and I'd already been paid . . . .

"About forty minutes," I told him a little harshly. Can't start making exceptions in this job. The rules are there for a reason, and even if it was tempting as hell to just nap with Mr. Grey I really shouldn't do it.

He nodded without opening his eyes, sliding an arm around me.

"Just . . . lie here with me then. For a while."

Shit. I bit my lip and stiffened for a moment, then let out my breath and softened up against him. Hey, he asked, and we were still on the clock, so I gave in and just lay quietly in the circle of his arm, listening to him breathe.

The room was warm and dark, and before I could quite help myself I was drifting off alongside Mr. Grey . . .

I woke up again a few hours later, feeling an arm draped over my stomach and a hot breath on my shoulder. For a moment I panicked a little, but once I remembered where I was I relaxed and started to think about how to slip out without waking my client. Clearly the sex had relaxed him enough to sleep, and I didn't want to disturb that. I shifted, moving my legs first, but he stirred slightly, and the arm on me tightened.

"Mmmmnn . . ." he murmured, his teeth bumping the skin on my shoulder. I shifted a little more, but the wrong way, and all of a sudden I had a very big problem pushing between my thighs as the arm tugged me closer. Mr. Grey breathed on the side of my neck, his words almost sorrowful.

"Need you, Slim. I'll . . . pay the overtime."

I have no idea why that hit me so hard; other clients have done it, and tipped big for longer sessions too. Maybe it was because Mr. Grey sounded so damn sad, or maybe it was because he felt so good, smelled so warm and sleepy—I had to blink a lot to clear my eyes and worked to keep my whisper steady. I rolled over and pressed a hand on his mouth.

"Shhhhhh . . ."

This one was slow, almost like real lovemaking. Mr. Grey nuzzled and licked and let me do the same to him. The darkness was intensely liberating for him, I could tell. By the time I got the condom on him and he slid my knees up over his shoulders both of us were pretty worked up; he thrust into me and I didn't have to fake a groan of my own.

Bad sign.

I tensed, but it was too late to change anything; while a girl like me can fake an orgasm, I sure as hell can't stop the real thing from happening when it's on the way, and damn it, this one had been building up for a while. Mr. Grey languidly pumped himself into me, and I closed my eyes, mentally cursing him for being so fucking good at hitting every button on the elevator, if you know what I mean.

We came only a few seconds apart, and I felt the heat sizzle through me as my body clenched, milking his in that perfect synchronicity all the books and movies talk about—the one that doesn't happen in real life. I felt him drop onto me, shaking, clutching me and for one little tiny moment I let myself pretend.

Pretend it was ME he wanted, he loved, not her.

Not his precious dead Sara.

Shit.

000 000 000

I got out of there fast, while he was in the bathroom. I knew he'd want to shower together, I couldn't see myself doing that without a problem now. So I climbed into my clothes as quickly as I could and got out of there, making sure to close the door quietly. I took the elevator down two floors and got out, took the stairs the rest of the way, trying not to think about anything. At this hour of the night not many people were around, so it was easy to catch a cab and get away from room 428.

It wasn't so easy to get away from my thoughts, of course. My stupid feelings. Somehow Mr. Grey and his big blue eyes and lonely smile had gotten under my thick working girl hide for the moment and I need to recover from that. I got home an hour later, tired, angry with myself and ready to take it out on the treadmill in my spare bedroom. I walked in and hit my answering machine before I thought about it, which was my second big mistake; it beeped, and then as I stood there, his voice filled the room, soft and disappointed.

"I'm sorry you left, Slim. I know I took up more of your time than you can afford to lose and that I owe you . . . well, I owe you a lot for tonight. I'll leave the money with your agency if that's all right with you."

There was a long pause on the tape, and I thought the message was over, but then I heard his voice again, softer this time.

"I didn't mean to . . . hurt you, honey, if I did."

And that's when the tears started.

000 000 000

So it's easiest for me to pack up and move on. This isn't a softhearted career and there are a thousand other cities out there where I can set up shop and do just fine. I've got enough in the bank to head out to my brothers and take my time figuring out what I want to do. I've left word with Sleek's to take good care of my clientele, and find some good up and comers for them. Doctor X likes them adventurous; John Doe likes them stylish and patient . . .

I sent Mr. Grey a letter. Names are important, and I knew his from the start, so it was easy to get a note to him through the LVPD. A short, sweet one, thanking him for his patronage and wishing him the best of luck. Nothing too personal, nothing incriminating.

A polite note of goodbye.

But I know when he reads it that he'll be looking at the paper, the envelope, the stamp. That he could take it apart twenty different ways and find me if he wants. Maybe he will. Maybe he won't.

All I DO know is that he's not my client anymore, and if he wants to do something about that---

He can.

END


End file.
